


Light To Bring Me Back Around Again (Glorious, We Transcend)

by modernpatroclus



Series: safe & sound [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, bc my sweet summer child deserves everything, patroclus!lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5966419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modernpatroclus/pseuds/modernpatroclus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I should have died. The prophecy declared it so. But we have managed to outrun the Fates this long.</i><br/>Now we must find our way back to each other.</p><p> </p><p>Patroclus!lives</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light To Bring Me Back Around Again (Glorious, We Transcend)

**Author's Note:**

> Because I finally sat down and finished this beautiful book, and I have 100000 feelings about it.  
> The title is from "Salvation" by Gabrielle Aplin.  
> Enjoy!

Automedon hovers over me, panicked and unsure what to do. He swallows, and tries to staunch the bleeding. But it is no good. The blood is too much.

I touch his arm and wait for him to meet my eyes. “It is okay,” I say weakly.

He does not respond; instead, he looks back toward the end of the beach that leads toward camp. I do not have the strength to look myself, but I do not need to. A moment later, I hear him.

“ _Patroclus_!” Achilles yells, and he is by my side in moments. His features are marred by panic and worry.

Automedon scrambles out of his way, and Achilles turns his gaze to him for a few seconds to ask, “What happened?” His anger is misdirected.

“Achilles.” He looks at me, the anger giving way back to worry. “Do not blame him. I made my decisions.” The words are heavy, thick with meaning. _I chose to fight; you did not_.

But for all the world, I cannot blame him. I cannot even be angry. This was my idea – my choice. I had to do something to bring back my Achilles, to save him before it was too late.

“You said would not fight. You swore it!” he says, and though he sounds angry, I know it is the fear – the desperation – that make him sound so. We still do not know how to truly be angry with each other.

“Who has done it?” he asks, and that rage, that fire that has burned inside of him for so long, flares up with a vengeance. “Was it Hector?” I do not have to answer; he already knows.

I try to move, to grasp his arm and calm him down. But I have lost too much blood, and can hardly move without making black spots cloud my vision. And if I am going to die, the last thing I want to see is his beautiful face.

I must have groaned, for Achilles’ hands are hovering over me, and the rage is gone at once, replaced again with panic.

“Do not leave me! You cannot die!” he sobs, and I yearn to comfort him. “You must stay awake. I will get you help,” he begs, and because it is him, I use the little strength left in me to nod, to reassure him, though I know it is futile.

I am going to die, but at least I will be with him.

But as Achilles stands, cradling me in the arms I have come to know better than my own, I have a sickening realization: He is going to die as well.

He is going to kill Hector for vengeance, and the prophecy will be realized. Somehow, after Hector is dead, Achilles will be next.

It cannot happen. He cannot leave this world because of me. I will not let him.

Suddenly, Achilles stops running. I lift my head as much as I can, and I see the white tent. Achilles pushes his way inside, and searches for Machaon. “Save him! Do not let him die!”

The old man’s eyes widen as he sees me, quickly bleeding out in a wild Achilles’ arms. He nods quickly and gestures to an empty place for Achilles to set me down. He does, but he does not move away. He grasps my hand, so cold now with loss of blood, and Machaon walks to the other side and cuts away my tunic.

“He has lost a lot of blood, but the wound is not deep.” The words are practiced, the fear well hidden.

“Can you save him?” Achilles asks, his brilliant eyes never leaving my fading ones.

“I will do everything in my power.”

There is tense silence while Machaon prepares to treat me. I squeeze Achilles’ hand in an attempt to get his attention. But it is not necessary; he has thought of nothing else since he found me.

“Patroclus,” he says, my name, beautiful as ever on his lips, a question.

“You must not kill Hector. Even if I die, you must not let the prophecy come true,” I beg, knowing it is useless. He will not live without me anymore than I will live without him.

Achilles gives me the most melancholy smile I have ever seen grace his face. “Do you not see? It already has. ‘ _The best of the Myrmidons_ ,’” he quotes, bitterness dripping from every syllable.

“I am not dead yet,” I remind with the faintest smile. “It could not be me still.”

Tears cloud his eyes. Before they fall, Machaon is back with a draught meant to numb me to the pain.

But before I can feel its effects, he begins the stitching. I have lost too much blood already to wait.

When I feel the tools cutting into the tender skin around my wound, I must bite down on my lip to hold back my noises of pain. Achilles could not bear it if I screamed.

To distract myself until the draught takes over and I may never recover, I stare. I go over the features of the face I know so well. It calms me. And if I were to die right now, my only regret would be the knowledge of what will become of him after. For this is how I wish to die: Next to Achilles, alive and so beautifully whole.

For so long I have dreaded that he will be the first – that he will leave me alone in this life, which I have come to depend on his presence. But for a moment, I pretend that I will not have to bear this earth without my _philtatos._

It is cruel, I know, to wish such a pain on him. But I am only Patroclus, and he is Achilles. _Aristos Achaion_. He would be fine without me, if only he would try.

But I know what will happen. And as the draught takes over my battle-worn body, I send a prayer to any gods who will listen that the prophecy does not come to pass.

* * *

There is darkness. A haze clouds my mind, and I go in and out of consciousness for some time. If I even open my eyes, I do not know.

Eventually the fog lifts, giving way to blinding light: Achilles.

His face, wearied from the last few hours – days, perhaps – looms over mine where I rest. His eyes are closed, but his face is restless even in sleep. He is not resting by choice.

I do not wish to wake him. I move carefully to see where we are. I cannot sit up from the pain of my wound, so I crane my neck and see the inside of our tent, where, for better or for worse, we have spent the last nine years of our lives.

It hits me then: I survived. Either I am not the one the prophecy referred to, or it has not come true. Such a thing has never been heard of before.

Still, I must not let him kill Hector. Whether _‘the best of the Myrmidons’_ dies or lives, Achilles must no matter what. If he dies, I will have lived for nothing.

I relax against the sheets and watch Achilles’ sleeping face. He is so beautiful. So pure, despite the killer the war has made him. Lately I have not seen the boy I fell in love with, but I know he will always be in there.

His arm is resting on the edge of the bed, our hands intertwined in a hold tight as death. We cannot let go.

I lift my free hand and run a finger down his arm, tracing his veins. My touch is feather light, but still he feels it. He always knows me.

His eyes open, and when they meet mine, I can forget for a moment – the throbbing pain in my stomach, the horrible tension of the last few weeks, the arrogant man he has been.

There is only us: Achilles and Patroclus, companions for longer than not. The only love either of us has known.

When he realizes that I am awake, his eyes run through many emotions – surprise, worry, excitement – before finally settling on shame.

“Patroclus,” he says, and I have never heard anything more beautiful. The word is tinged in regret, though; he has more to say. I incline my head for him to continue, squeezing his hand in comfort. For both of us.

“This is my fault.” Before I can interrupt, he warns me with a look. “If I had not been so blinded by pride, you would not have been hurt. I should have stopped long ago and rejoined the war against the Trojans. But I was too consumed in my battle with Agamemnon to see what it was doing to me, or to us. To you.” He bows his head to avoid my burning gaze.

When next he speaks, his voice is muffled. “I was a fool. I let the promise of fame, of an even grander reputation, turn me into a horrible man. A man you could not recognize. Men have died, Briseis was endangered, and you have been hurt in more ways than a spear.

“I do not deserve anyone’s forgiveness, least of all yours. But you are so much a better man than I. You sacrificed your life because I was too foolish to give in.”

Finally, I must interrupt. “I would do it again.” The words are a promise, meant to reassure him that he is forgiven. That I never really blamed him. I blamed Thetis.

“You should hate me,” he says, lifting his head and staring into my eyes once more. “Why do you not hate me?” His voice cracks and wavers under the emotions warring inside of him.

“Perhaps,” I allow, speaking slowly and clearly so he will truly hear me. “But my heart has no room for hate; it has only enough for my love for you.”

His eyes fill and overflow, both with tears and emotions. There is still much to say, to hear, from both of us. Tomorrow, we will figure out how to win this war together. Tomorrow, we will unburden our hearts with all of the things left unsaid.

But it can wait. Today, I will sleep with my Achilles for the first time in months.

I shift gingerly to the side and leave an empty space for him. I gesture to it with my free hand, the other still locked with his. He settles in next to me, and I lay my head against his heart, listening.

It is like this for a while, our synchronized breaths and hearts the only sounds in the tent. But there is one last thing I have to tell him.

I turn until I am looking into his eyes.

“Getting stabbed was worth it. To bring you back to me,” I say, with the first true smile I have given in months. In return, from Achilles, I receive the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post](http://gouldsouls.tumblr.com/post/139031442102/glorious-we-transcend)  
>  Leave a comment to make my day!


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